


Brother Knows Best

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drama, During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-06
Updated: 2006-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: The night Sam announced he was going to college, whether his father and brother liked it or not, it was cold. A few degrees above freezing...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Brother Knows Best.**  
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. Adult.  
  
  
The night Sam announced he was going to college, whether his father and brother liked it or not, it was cold. A few degrees above freezing, and they hadn’t paid their electric bill that month. Good ol’ Dad retreated to the bar, and Dean lay awake on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling, teeth clenched to keep them from chattering, and angry as hell.  
  
He wanted to say something hurtful, something original and biting that Sam would carry with him all the way to school, but he ended up saying nothing at all, standing in the drive way as he watched Sam pull away in some random borrowed car, everything he owned packed into the backseat and trunk.  
  
Nearly seven years later, with two cold trails to follow and no real goal, they just drive, following vague leads from the papers, both trying to fool themselves into thinking that one more demon, one more night in a shitty motel, really will make a difference.  
  
A cold night in late December sees them at a fine establishment known as Sal’s Hilltop Motel, a place that looks as if the “No” addition to the neon “Vacancy” sign isn’t used to flashing. Three rooms worth of broken A/C and inch-thick mattresses covered in suspicious stains over creaky bedsprings, but the TVs work.  
  
Sal beckons Dean closer as he takes down their names and tells them that for an extra ten bucks, he can hook theirs up with porn. Sam rolls his eyes and takes the room key, but Dean pulls a crumpled bill out of his pocket with a grin and hands it across the counter.  
  
They make their way to room number two (“Best room I’ve got,” Sal said). The lock sticks and it takes them a minute to get the door open. They drop their bags by the cheap pine dresser, and Dean announces he’s going to take a shower. Sam shrugs and lies down on the comfier-looking bed.  
  
He grabs the remote and flips past the local news, a soap opera, Lindsey Wagner talking about her dream mattress, and ends up with a badly filmed skin flick.   
  
“You actually paid for this?” he asks Dean when he reemerges from the shower, and his brother smiles.  
  
“Sammy, we can’t all be geniuses.” He finds a pair of jeans his duffle and pulls them on. “Have to keep ourselves occupied, you know.”  
  
“Told you not to call me that,” says Sam and yawns, clicking off the TV and setting the remote aside.  
  
Dean eyes him from by the dresser, stands up and stops looking for a clean shirt. “You should get some sleep.”  
  
Sam shrugs. His eyes ache. “Won’t help.”  
  
“Still?”  
  
“Yeah.” He sighs, his eyes flick toward the ceiling, and he pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Still.”  
  
Dean doesn’t move for a moment, and he looks like he’s thinking hard. He chews his lower lip for a few seconds, then walks over to the bed and sits down.   
  
Maybe if he weren’t so against intimacy in every single aspect of his life, he would know what to say to his baby brother to help with three years worth of sleep deprivation and everything else, but he is and he doesn’t.  
  
They sit there for God knows how long, and Dean has the sneaky suspicion that if this drags out much longer, it may become one of those dreaded Kodak moments.  
  
So he moves, does the first thing that comes to mind, turns sharply and kisses Sam’s forehead, still-pruney fingertips on his chin, turning his head.  
  
Sam closes his eyes, and makes an odd sound in his throat, somewhere halfway between a defeated sigh and a moan.  
  
When they lived at home, Dean and Sam had always shared a room. As a kid, on the nights he couldn’t sleep, Sam could hear Dean, hands under the covers, soft, guttural sounds falling from his lips, and a sharp intake of breath as he would finish off. When Sam was a bit older, he joined in. Every few nights, they jerked off together and each other, and they somehow managed to chalk it up to _that’s just what brothers do_ , even though they knew it wasn’t.  
  
But it’s been years, and some part of Sam is surprised they lasted as long as they did without bringing this up again. Because he’s kissing back now, tracing his fingers over the few scars on Dean’s bare chest, and Dean is pushing Sam’s t-shirt up and over his head, licking his collarbone. His fingers fumble with belts, buttons, zippers, and jeans slide off.  
  
“God,” says Sam softly, and Dean smiles as his fingers brush against his brother’s cock.   
  
He says, “Lie down,” and Sam does, because brother knows best when it comes to things like this.  
  
Dean tugs at his brother’s boxers, and they come down, too, but he pauses, just for a moment. Ever since Sam left, he’d pictured this, over and over. Not quite like this, of course, but there is a certain _déjà vu_ element in all this, and somehow, even after seven years, something is too quick.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean lets his hands wander a bit, coming to rest on the bony part of Sam’s hips.  
  
“You look too thin from this angle,” he says, and looks up, studying the form before him critically.   
  
“Dean,” Sam repeats, urgently this time.  
  
Dean keeps staring. His brother’s face looks far away, eyes closed and chin pointed slightly upward. Trying to sound serious, he ignores Sam’s tone and says, “Are you sure you’re eating well?”  
  
“Go to Hell,” Sam snaps, and Dean laughs.  
  
“I think,” he says slowly, and gives an experimental lick (Sam groans in reply), “that I’m already headed there.” He receives no verbal confirmation or denial, but Sam’s hips jerk involuntarily, and Dean turns his attention to the task at hand.  
  
It doesn’t take too long, and Dean pulls himself up alongside Sam, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiling.  
  
“Feel any better?”  
  
“Now that you mention it, a bit.” Sam sighs, looks up. For once, he doesn’t see Her on the ceiling. He looks back. “Why are you so gorgeous?”  
  
“I got the prettier half of the gene pool. Now go to sleep.”  
  
Sam nods, then shakes his head. “You didn’t get a turn.”  
  
“Dude. What _do_ you think was going on in the shower?”


End file.
